


Mine

by Mike_Remington_Hanson



Series: Tumblr Prompts [10]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2021-02-23 07:56:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23041675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mike_Remington_Hanson/pseuds/Mike_Remington_Hanson
Summary: Promptselected byTuli-chan.
Relationships: Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara
Series: Tumblr Prompts [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/938211
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47





	Mine

**Author's Note:**

> **[Prompt](https://otpprompts.tumblr.com/post/127559678557/medieval-au-person-b-is-a-princeprincess-and)** selected by **[Tuli-chan.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tuliharja/pseuds/Tuliharja)**

He remembers the sting of the whip. The sound it made when it swished through the air. The pain exploding across his back, burning, tearing.

One lash on the good days. Three on the bad ones. Six on the worst.

He remembers the tremble of his legs. Blood and bile in his mouth. The feel of the ground beneath his palms and knees is too familiar.

Whips. Belts. Wood. Fists. Rough hands. Hot breath. Bruises and burns.

He remembers breaking beneath them all.

Madara remembers pain. He remembers humiliation. Remembers anger and loneliness and the tempting tease of death, always dancing out of reach.

But he does not remember Tobirama.

  


* * *

  


Uchiha Madara is fifteen, the only son and heir of King Tajima. At five, he was lost. He remained unfound for ten years.

His mother passed away of an illness seven years ago.

This is what he is told.

They do not tell him she died of a broken heart.

Madara knows anyway.

  


* * *

  


Senju Tobirama will not leave him alone.

He has not left his side since he rescued Madara from the grasp of his captors. Has hovered close, even as Madara was fussed over by everyone claiming to be a family member, a tutor, a loyal servant.

Madara remembers almost nothing. He lets himself be dragged in various directions, into various outfits, steered toward varied company. There are sun-bright smiles. A cry, joyous on many lips. _The prince has returned!_

He is smothered and overwhelmed, even long after his homecoming.

Madara feels like he might suffocate. He reaches — panicked and desperate — for a lifeline.

And Tobirama is always there, watching.

  


* * *

  


The Senju boys were once his playmates.

This, Madara is reminded of by Senju Hashirama, the oldest of them, and Tobirama's twin.

Their father is the King's most trusted advisor and closest friend. They have known Madara since his birth. They were eleven when he was kidnapped.

Madara remembers nothing of Hashirama's stories. But there are things unsaid, that he simply _knows._

He knows the dimples of Hashirama's cheeks. Knows the strength of his broad shoulders, the familiarity of his hands beneath his knees when he used to give Madara piggyback rides around the castle grounds.

He knows the timbre of Tobirama's voice, the cadence of it when he read Madara tales of dragons and their riders. The sharpness of his blood red eyes, ever discerning.

His eyes, intelligent and expressive, unchanging.

  


* * *

  


Each night, Madara wakes, cloaked in cold sweat, screaming.

It is always Tobirama who reaches him first. Tobirama who soothes him with quiet words and gentle touches. Tobirama who remains long after he's coaxed Madara back to sleep. Tobirama who Madara finds by his bedside when he wakes a second time, silent.

Tobirama whose eyes swear revenge.

  


* * *

  


He watches Tobirama dress. Watches him fasten each piece of armor with practiced ease. Watches him sheathe his sword, mount his horse.

Madara wants to scream, _Don't go!_

_Don't leave me alone._

He withholds his cries. He cannot bear to watch Tobirama leave. He watches, terrified that the sight of Tobirama's back would be his final memory of him.

  


* * *

  


When Tobirama returns, his eyes are aflame with bloodlust. His mouth is hard, cold with grim satisfaction. He is covered in blood.

None of it is his own.

This, Madara knows before anyone tells him.

  


* * *

  


Death is a constant thought. Even now, within the palace, wrapped in the trappings of the finest silks and the softest of cottons, Madara feels trammeled, breathless, _terrified._

Guilt and shame war and rage inside him. Bitterness, not far behind.

Tajima looks at him, and Madara cannot bear the grief in his eyes. He knows that he is changed. Knows that his father does not know him.

Madara sees his pain and longs for death. He wishes he had died at the hands of his captors. Better to have died as his family remembered him, than to live as a stranger among them.

He looks at Tobirama and eyes his blade. Feels Tobirama's gaze upon him.

His gaze that's too sharp, too discerning, too knowing.

Madara averts his own like the coward he is.

  


* * *

  


The thing he hates most is the endless game of _Remember when…?_

He hates the expectance that shines in everyone's eyes, the disappointment in them when he is frustratingly unable to be the person they want him to be.

Madara's memories of his childhood are fragmented and blurred. He remembers his mother's gentle voice, though not her face. His father's guiding hands, though not his lessons.

He does not remember time. It is but an interminable moment, of agony, blood, crippling _fear._

"I cannot be a son to my father," he tells Tobirama, loathing the tremble in his voice, his bones. "I am not the crown prince. Nor am I the playmate you and your brother once knew." He cannot meet his eyes. He is afraid of the hurt he might find in them.

But there are — unexpected, though not unwelcome — fingers beneath his chin, tilting up. Madara does not flinch beneath the touch. This surprises him.

"You do not need to be anyone but yourself," Tobirama tells him.

And Madara knows, that Tobirama is not attempting to appease him. He says it simply, like an obvious truth. His eyes are ever honest.

Madara trembles and trembles, but does not break.

  


* * *

  


They are seated by the river, beneath the shade of trees dappled with sunlight. Hashirama catches him staring. "What is it? Have I got mud on my face?"

"Didn't your hair used to be short?" Madara asks, immediately feeling foolish and guilty for asking something he should already know.

Hashirama's smile is nothing but kind. "It was," he says. "You used to tug on my bangs. You thought it was hilarious."

"He means _ridiculous,_ " Tobirama pipes up. "You had the dumbest haircut in the entire kingdom, Brother."

"And yours hasn't moved in thirteen years!" Hashirama counters.

Madara laughs. Loud. Honest. It isn't funny, but he laughs anyway, his thin frame rocking with mirth.

The twins are staring at him, startled. Grins spread slow over their features. They look nothing alike, but their smiles are the same. Then, they are laughing with him.

It is all too nostalgic, too familiar. Too much like _home._

Madara knows that the last time they laughed together was a day much like this one, when they were not knights or princes, simply _boys._

  


* * *

  


He watches Tobirama as much as Tobirama watches _him._

Madara's eyes track Tobirama's movements. The furrow of his brows. The curve of his lips. The flex of his fingers. His breaths. His steps.

Madara watches till all that is Tobirama is burned into his memory.

During lessons, his mind drifts, to the exasperation of his tutors. He feels the eyes of his father on him, somewhere between worried, pitying, and amused.

Madara observes Tobirama, in each waking moment, even in his dreams.

  


* * *

  


It is Tobirama who keeps him sane. Tobirama who drives him to madness.

Madara knows this, as well as he knows every breath in his body.

He tosses and turns at night and, for the first time, it is not the fear of nightmares that keeps him awake.

His hand snakes beneath the folds of his robe. Already, he is hard, painfully so. He is wet and wanting.

He touches himself. His right hand, a firm fist around his cock. His left, within the sharp grip of his teeth.

Madara spreads his legs, imagines Tobirama between them. He _needs_ Tobirama, inside him, all over him, erasing all the memories he does not want.

Memories of teeth and hands and bodies that make him recoil in disgust. Hands that took him apart. Broke him, unmade him, left him cowering on the ground after in fear and shame and self-loathing.

His hand tightens. His teeth sink into his own skin, drawing blood. Madara lies in a pool of sweat and satin sheets, pleasuring himself, thinking _Tobirama, Tobirama, Tobirama._ Wishing he would walk in right now to witness Madara writhing around like a common, cock-starved whore.

He wants so much for Tobirama to see him like this. To _want_ him like this. Imagines the red of his eyes ignited with shameless hunger.

Madara comes with a strangled cry around the taste of blood and skin and Tobirama's name between his lips.

  


* * *

  


He has taken to running away, seeking solace in rooms unused, in hallways unoccupied.

It is wearying, always being watched. He cannot bear the constant pressure of it, this stifling observation. The way he is looked at as if he may disappear at any moment.

Madara does not enjoy being watched by anyone who isn't Tobirama.

He hides himself most often amid the trees by the river. Its rhythm calms him. Somedays, he sits on the branches of the tallest trees, listening to the sounds of the forest. Somedays, he stands upon the bank, skipping stones, watching them sink.

He hides away, and it is Tobirama who always finds him.

  


* * *

  


Tobirama stares at him with a gaze so intense, Madara knows most would — _should_ — find it intimidating.

But he does not. There is nothing about Tobirama that frightens him. There are none he feels safer with than Tobirama.

Tobirama is his guard, his shadow, but it is _Madara_ who follows him around like a loyal puppy seeking praise. He tries to walk all the steps Tobirama does. He tries — hard — to measure up.

He wants Tobirama to look upon him and see an equal. Not a child dumb enough to get himself kidnapped. Weak enough to remain a slave for over a decade. Pathetic enough to inspire pity and sorrow in all around him.

Everything about Tobirama exudes power and strength.

Excitement. Hunger. _Want._ These are the emotions engendered in him, each time Tobirama glances his way.

Madara trails Tobirama, tries to be good, to be perfect, to be _strong._ Attempts to impress. To be noticed. To be _loved._

He would do anything to be the solitary focus of that intent gaze.

Madara returns that gaze, unflinching, and allows himself to _hope._

  


* * *

  


Somedays, he lies in bed long after he has woken, willing Tobirama to find him.

Tobirama is — more often than not — never truly far away. He lingers outside Madara's door, ever watchful, yet mindful of his need for space.

Madara knows this, loves and loathes him for it.

He lies upon the sheets, not daring to move or breathe. He wants Tobirama to come in, unannounced and unasked. Wants Tobirama to lie on top of him, engulf him so completely till he is no longer himself.

Madara remains frozen, thinking, wishing, pleading, _Come in. Come in. Come in._

Thinks, _You need not ask. You need only take and I will never tell a soul._

Thinks, _I would only surrender._

  


* * *

  


The hour is late, yet sleep evades him.

Madara does not often sleep these days. The constant whirl of his thoughts — his fantasies, his desires — keeps him awake. Dark circles are ever present beneath his eyes, like crescent shadows. His skin is pale. His body, starved.

He cannot find rest without Tobirama.

His father has sent Tobirama on a mission, across the borders of their lands. Hashirama has gone with him. Another knight is tasked with keeping watch over Madara. He does everything in his power to evade him.

Madara knows that this is the King's attempt at keeping some distance between his knight and his son.

It irks him. That his father would so easily separate them. That his feelings for Tobirama have not gone unnoticed. If Tajima knows, does it not mean Tobirama knows as well?

And if he does, why has he said nothing about it?

Fear seizes his heart, sudden and cruel. With it comes a wave of horrified shame. His lungs constrict. Hurt blooms within his chest. He had misinterpreted the meaning of Tobirama's gaze. He does not care. Does not — _would not_ — feel the same. He does not want Madara as anything more than his ward.

  


* * *

  


A week passes. Then another. Tobirama does not return.

Madara finds it harder to breathe.

  


* * *

  


He has taken to hiding out in Tobirama's chambers. No one ever thinks to look for him there.

Madara sits at his desk, runs his fingers over the patterns in the wood. He fingers the pages of Tobirama's books. Touches the blades upon the walls, the clothes in his closet. He slips into one of Tobirama's shirts. Slips between the sheets of his bed.

Madara buries his face in Tobirama's pillow and inhales. Tobirama's scent. Like frost and wood and earth. Like the river.

Madara remembers Tobirama's hand in his hair. The smiles on his face, rare and freely given only to those closest to him. The strength of his being. The fierce, fiery depths of his eyes.

Madara remembers, and drifts into sleep.

  


* * *

  


He wakes to Tobirama staring at him.

Tobirama, in his armor, the scent of blood and battle and smoke that's heavy upon him.

Madara's eyes widen. He should be ashamed at being caught, in Tobirama's bed, in Tobirama's shirt. He should apologize. But his body moves before he can speak, before he can even deign to think.

He leaps out of bed, reaches for Tobirama, embraces him like he's forgotten how to let go.

It's been a month.

 _One whole month,_ and Tobirama is _here,_ before him, present and _alive._

Madara clings to him, desperate and relieved. He feels Tobirama's hands, reaching up. The gentle grip upon his arms, coaxing, untangling.

He feels his grip loosen, and he panics. The hurt swells and swells, constricts his chest. He should have known. He _had_ known and yet, he'd dared hope.

He'd been a fool.

Madara lets go, humiliation churning within his gut. He wills himself not to lash out. Not to cry. Not to break.

He lets go, but — shockingly, confusingly — Tobirama doesn't.

His hand is gentle around Madara's wrist. His lips are silent. His eyes are not.

They blaze, trenchant and searing. _Hungry._

He does not have time to think, to react. Tobirama's hand is beneath his chin. The other, a firm grip upon his wrist. And Tobirama's lips are on his, taking.

_Devouring._

  


* * *

  


It is the easiest thing to surrender. They lie naked upon the bed, hands and lips wandering unrestrained over heated skin.

Tobirama is so broad, so powerful. Madara clings to him, aching to be engulfed. To be overwhelmed. To be lost again.

He could die right now, suffocated beneath the weight of Tobirama and he wouldn't mind. He wants to breathe till Tobirama replaces all the air in his lungs. All the blood in his veins.

They kiss and touch like long-starved things. Madara willingly spreads his legs. Tobirama easily finds his way between them.

There is a vial of oil in Tobirama's hand. Madara does not wonder where it came from. He is too distracted by the heat of Tobirama's kisses. The strength of his body. The way his muscles shift and bunch beneath his skin. His coated fingers between the cleft of Madara's ass, caressing.

Madara gasps, needy and lewd. It is too good. He is no virgin, and he knows that Tobirama knows this, though he has never felt such pleasure from fingers alone.

He wants and _wants._ Pleasure and anticipation curl in his gut. His arms wind around Tobirama's neck, fingers digging into flesh, impatient.

Tobirama's fingers withdraw. A hand hooks itself beneath Madara's knee, draws his leg upward. The head of his cock, scalding against Madara's asshole.

Madara whines, and Tobirama pushes in. A loud cry fills the room, and Madara is startled to realize that he is capable of such sound.

Tobirama is considerably _larger_ than the men who had forced themselves upon Madara. The size of him, his length, his heat — it is all frightening as much as it is pleasurable.

Violent trembles rack his frame. His hands are bruising grips upon Tobirama's skin. His breaths are harsh between them.

Tobirama's gaze is ever intent upon him. "Relax," he commands, and Madara tries to obey. His fingers come to stroke Madara's cheek, and Madara leans into the touch, craving more.

He never wants Tobirama to stop touching him.

And Tobirama doesn't. His fingers mark a trail along Madara's face, his neck, his body. He runs his thumb along the hardened peak of Madara's nipple. His hand smooths its way down his side, from rib to hip.

Tobirama's touches are new and familiar. Madara finds himself responding to them, his body twisting and writhing as if his skin were chasing the dance of Tobirama's fingers.

Tobirama's fingers, around his cock.

Madara moans — too loud, too honest — and bucks his hips. His ass clenches around Tobirama's cock.

Tobirama's touch is a warm, avaricious thing. He thrusts deep, rocks inside Madara, hits that spot inside him that shoves all thought from his mind. Over and over.

Lips. Teeth. Tongue. Hands. Cock.

There is no place of Madara left unmarked.

They fall into a rhythm as if they've done this before. This whole moment is a mass of contradictions. Of familiar and unknown. Erratic and well-timed. Pleasure and pain.

Tobirama is too good, too hot, too _much_ inside him. It makes Madara dizzy with too many unnamable emotions. Speech is driven from him. He wraps himself tight around Tobirama, letting his body say all the things his tongue cannot.

  


* * *

  


He sits atop the sheets, knees raised to his chest and ankles crossed, dressed in Tobirama's shirt and nothing else.

Tobirama lies on his back, uncovered, running his fingers along the pale curve of Madara's calf, tracing the fine hairs upon his shin.

It makes shivers run up and down Madara's spine. Makes his spent cock twitch with want.

Tobirama smirks, as if all that Madara is thinking, feeling, _desiring_ is transmitted through the barest touches of skin. "It looks good on you," he says, and Madara knows he means the shirt.

"I missed you," Madara blurts, knowing it is neither here nor there, but unable — and unwilling — to stop himself.

Tobirama's smile is warm. His hand gentles upon Madara's leg. "And I, you." He says this with no trace of mawkishness. He says it as fact, blunt and straightforward as he always is, always has been.

Madara leans forward and kisses him.

He has never wanted someone so completely.

Has never wanted to be anyone's everything.

  


* * *

  


The moon is everywhere. It is reflected upon the water. Its glow illuminates the silver of Tobirama's hair, glints off the edge of his blade.

Beneath the shadow of his favorite tree, Madara sits and watches.

Watches Tobirama by the river's edge, the precision of his sword, the silent fluidity of his steps, the raw potency of his body.

The sound his blade makes as it sings through still air. The near inaudible rhythm of his breaths. The sweat that glimmers upon his skin. The taut muscles beneath.

These are the things that Madara would remember.

Tobirama, Madara thinks, is both the moon and the blade. Sharp. Cold. Stunning. Intimidating.

Beauty and power and death, intertwined.

Madara watches, feels breath catch in his throat.

Tobirama looks at him with wolf-eyes and wolf-teeth, keen and rapacious and _savage._

And Madara — willingly and always — surrenders.

_Consume me._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Mine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25538197) by [thequinnmachine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequinnmachine/pseuds/thequinnmachine)




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